


everything you are

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Dean's POV. Dean discovers the pretty librarian he met on a case is a little more “in the know” than he realized.





	everything you are

**Author's Note:**

> Dean comes to with a vague feeling of pain resonating through his entire body. He groans, his eyes slowly cracking open, feeling dry and dirty as a result of the fight he went through. 

He’s still hearing a commotion, which seems impossible, because he was by himself when he got attacked. A rookie mistake - he and Sam split up, but they’ve done it enough times without someone getting hurt.

As his vision comes back into focus, he thinks he must be hallucinating, because from the backseat of the Impala, the door still open on both sides, he sees a flash of long hair, the glint of a blade, a familiar voice.

He squints as he tries to put together what he’s seeing. The same girl he flirted with incessantly at the library earlier is going toe-to-toe with the monster that kicked his ass (he’s not too embarrassed to admit it) and _winning_.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans, trying to prop himself up despite the muscles in his shoulders and back screaming in protest. 

He looks up quickly when he hears you let out a particularly piercing screech, and is relieved when he sees that it looks to be in anger than in pain, watching as you kick the monster hard in the chest, knocking it to the ground. Dean finally staggers back to his feet, searching the floorboards of the Impala for his gun, and nearly knocks his head on the roof when he hears a gunshot.

He sees you standing there, _his gun_ in your hands, the barrel smoking as you breathe heavily, cursing under your breath. 

“Jesus fucking–” You say, stopping short when you glance in his direction and see him standing there staring. “Oh. You’re awake.” 

Dean is pretty sure he’s never been this flabbergasted in his entire life. “I–” He stops, not even sure what to say. His eyes glance down at the monster, hopefully dead on the ground. “It’s dead?” 

You look back down, then up at Dean, shrugging. “I hope so. That thing almost kicked my ass.” 

Dean blinks. “Sorry – aren’t you the librarian?” 

You grin. “Like you don’t remember who I am.” You walk a few steps closer, frowning at the cut on his forehead. “Unless your concussion is worse than I think. Do you really not remember?” You reach out, your touch feather light on his injured forehead. 

Dean almost flinches at the contact, lightning shooting up his spine at your touch. He thinks it’s the concussion, but it could be the fact that he’s still in awe of you. “I remember. I just– how did you know where I was? Or what I was doing?” 

You _roll your eyes_ , as if Dean is the one asking weird questions. “I read. I didn’t know who you were at the library, but the books you were checking out made me curious.” 

“You just thought you’d follow me and see if I was crazy or not.” 

You shake your head, and Dean takes a second to admire the way your hair shakes around your shoulders, the way you’ve got a streak of dirt on your cheek and the way his gun is still dangling from your fingertips like it belongs there. “You’re not the first hunter I’ve met. This town seems to attract this kind of stuff.” 

Dean shoots you a look of disbelief. “Monsters.” 

You shrug, “I guess so. So I did some reading, and when I saw your car tearing down the road and you were by yourself…” you trail off, looking embarrassed for the first time. “Thought you might need some help.” 

“You came to be my _backup_?” 

A lovely blush settles on your cheeks, and Dean is torn between wanting to hightail it out of there –

(Because who _does_ that? Runs headfirst into a monster fight without knowing what they’re getting into? You could be seriously nuts.)

– and wanting to push you up against the car and kiss that unsure look right off your face. The urge is there, and he grits his teeth to keep from saying anything that could get him punched. 

“I guess so.” You shrug. “Didn’t do much good. I walked here, and by the time I got here you were already near unconscious.” 

“You killed that thing.” Dean says, “What do you mean, you didn’t do any good?” He takes a step closer without thinking, looking over your body for any injuries. You seem to have gotten the drop on the thing, though. Only a few scratches and some bruises. 

Dean’s mind is still racing. All he can think of is the way you looked when you were taking on that thing, your hair flying around you like some kind of avenging angel. He bites back a smile. 

“Yeah, well.” You shrug, blushing again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not going anywhere in life. I wanted to help. I should have just said something to you.” 

Dean smiles, but doesn’t say anything, because he knows damn well he would have been an asshole about it. She would have asked, and he would have either acted like she was crazy, or he would have told her in no uncertain terms to stay right where she was. He knows it’s shitty, but he’s had enough people who know what they’re doing go to bat for him, and he’s tired. He’s tired of letting people get hurt for him. 

“I should be thanking you, then.” He says, tilting his head. “You wanna get a drink?” 

.

.

Dean’s pretty sure the way his headache is getting worse is not a great sign, but he ignores it as he drives you back to the motel. He knows you both look like you just went through a mugging, and he doesn’t think going to a bar is the best idea. Not when you know people in this town. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” You ask for the third time, and Dean’s hands reflexively clench on the steering wheel.

“It’s not far,” he replies. “I’m good.” 

He pulls into the parking lot, and wonders idly if Sam is back from interviewing more witnesses, yet. When he puts the car in park, he pulls out his phone and texts his brother, telling him the deed’s been done, and that he’s got one hell of a story to tell. 

You’re staring at him still - he can feel your eyes drag over his face. He turns to you, eyebrows raised. “Quit looking at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you think my brains are going to spill out of my head.” Dean says, grumbling as he gets out of the car, his muscles feeling tired and overused.

“Is that a thing that happens after you hunt?” You ask, following him to the door with a brass “12″ on the front, watching him closely as he unlocks it. “I was just thinking that you need stitches.” 

“I can stitch myself.” Dean says, dumping his bag by his bed and gesturing for you to sit down. “You want a beer?” 

“I can stitch you up. And yes.” You say, and he looks at you questioningly as he rummages through the small fridge in the kitchenette. “What? I told you. I read.” 

“Have you ever done stitches before?” He asks, handing you a cold bottle. 

“How hard can it be?” 

Dean tries to keep the mildly horrified look off his face as he looks you over, hand reaching out for your temple before he can help himself. “Seems like you’re the one that needs stitches, and if you’ve never done them before, you definitely aren’t allowed to do them on yourself.” 

You shrug. “Doesn’t hurt too bad.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Can you accept my help, please?” He starts rummaging through his bag, pulling out his small first aid kit. Sam has the bigger one, but this one will have to do. 

“You never go to hospitals for this?” You ask, watching his hands as he pulls out a clean needle and some antiseptic, a couple cotton rounds, and some thread. 

“Hunting doesn’t really offer great medical insurance.” He sits a little closer to you, and tucks two fingers under your chin gently to tilt your head up so he can see better. “Hold still. This is going to sting at first.” 

He sees you flinch as he dabs the antiseptic on your wound, but after you blow out a harsh breath, you relax a little bit, head tilting ever so slightly into his hand. He tries not to cradle your face, tries not to let the pads of his fingers make soothing motions as he starts stitching, but he can’t help it. 

“Almost done.” He murmurs, heart clenching a little bit as he watches tears gather in your eyes. He can see the way you’re determined not to cry, and something like pride and warmth curls in his stomach. “There.” 

You take another deep breath, and he leaves his spot next to you on the bed to grab another cotton swab. He comes back to you and runs it over the stitches, and almost subconsciously glances down at you, seeing your big eyes looking up at him a tear splashing onto your cheek. The bravado from earlier is gone, even though he sees you straighten your shoulders, determined not to look scared. He brushes the tear away with his thumb, and clears his throat. 

“Thanks.” You whisper. “I can do yours–” 

Dean’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence. “Really, I’m good. You look exhausted. Let me take you home.” 

“We didn’t even finish our drinks.” You say, looking at the barely-sipped beer bottles on the nightstand. 

Dean breathes out a laugh, wondering how the hell he got lucky enough to meet you on this hunt. He’s met plenty of girls on his trips, but he has a feeling that if he lets you, you’d be able to get under his skin like no one else has for a really long time. “How’s this - take a nap here, and when my brother gets back we’ll get some food and then take you home.” 

You’d been sort of slouching over the more tired you got, and you suddenly shoot upright. “Wait - how do we know there’s not more of those things out there? I have to go check, there’s my parents and–” 

“Hey.” Dean puts what he hopes is a calming hand on your shoulder. “Hey, relax. We’ll figure it out. Everything I’ve read says they don’t live in packs. Don’t worry about it right now.” 

You nod, but you still look worried, and again, Dean is struck with the almost uncontrollable urge to reach for you, to gather you up in his arms and tell you that he’s not going to let anything happen to you, not that you need his help. 

“A half hour. Then you have to wake me up.” You tell him, and he nods. 

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” 

.

.

When Sam comes back, you’re still asleep, and Dean recounts the whole story as quiet as he can, sneaking glances at you to make sure you haven’t woken up. When he looks back at his brother, Sam’s got that infuriatingly smug look on his face.

“What.” 

“Nothing!” Sam grins. “Just… you’ve never had to get rescued like that.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “She could have gotten herself killed.” 

Sam looks over at you. “Must have a brave streak, that’s for sure.” 

Dean swallows, watching as your chest rises and falls gently as you sleep. He feels this connection to you. He’s not stupid - he knows he’s attracted to you. It’s why he spent almost a solid hour at the library trying to get your attention the other day. He’s momentarily distracted when you shift on the bed, your shirt riding up slightly as you twist this way and that, trying to get comfortable.

Dean frowns when you don’t settle back down into sleep, but instead start murmuring, your face scrunching up in discomfort. He gets up from the chair and walks over to the bed, kneeling down next to you, ignoring Sam’s eyes on him.

“Hey,” he says your name quietly, “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.” Your eyes snap open, darting around the room, and he reaches for your face, cupping your cheek gently. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.” 

You calm down at the sound of his voice, but he feels you tense when you see Sam. 

“That’s my brother, Sam. You’ve been asleep for almost an hour.” 

“You were supposed to wake me up.” You say, frowning as you sit up. 

Dean shrugs. “You needed the rest.” 

Sam stands, introducing himself, and Dean watches as your eyes become a little clearer, a little less scared, a little more like the girl that shot a monster she’d never believed was real at point blank range. 

While you’re chatting, Dean orders a pizza, and manages to clean himself up enough so he doesn’t freak out the delivery guy. 

It’s kind of nice, he thinks, the chatter from you and Sam as you talk about all kinds of nerdy book stuff. In fact, it’s pretty damn adorable the way your eyes light up as you and Sam talk about some new book by a mutual favorite author, and he tries not to let his gaze linger too long as he listens in. 

The three of you devour an extra large pizza when it shows up, and then that full, sleepy feeling starts to take over. Dean knows he needs to get you back home before someone thinks you’ve been kidnapped or before he starts to get too comfortable with you. 

Self preservation is the same of the game for Dean these days, and he can feel how easy it would be to just slip into something easy and mutually satisfying with you. He can feel how easy it would be to spend an hour arguing with you about where to eat and then spend hours afterwards learning every inch of your body with his hands and his mouth. He can feel how easy it would be to have you there, doing research and kicking ass, and it scares him how he can picture it so clearly. He can’t afford to think this way anymore.

“I better go,” you say a while later, your voice soft. 

Sam says his goodbyes, sending a pointed look over your shoulder at Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes in response. You trail after Dean out into the parking lot, and Dean’s eyes dart around in the dark, looking for anything that could be considered a threat. 

The drive to your house is short, and he pulls up the driveway of a picturesque white house with flowers out front. It’s exactly what he pictured when he first met you. He puts the car in park, and watches as you turn to face him, ever so slightly.

“Alright, no chick flick moments.” He says, smiling at you. “You gonna be okay?” He asks, eyes lingering on your stitches and remembering the look on your face from your nightmare. 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Dean. For everything.” You say, and it’s right there, right on the tip of his tongue, to ask you for your number, or say something more than he can afford to give. He doesn’t. 

You get out of the car and walk up the curved sidewalk to the house, and Dean sits there, waiting to make sure you’ve gotten inside okay. He waits a minute longer, watching as the lights come on and hopes to hell nothing’s waiting for you inside.

A minute later and he’s running out of excuses for why he’s still there in the driveway. He blows out a breath, his pulse thundering. “Fuck it.” 

He gets out of the car, slamming the driver’s side door, and is at your front door knocking before he can tell himself why this is such a bad idea. When you pull open the wooden door, you look surprised, but there’s this glint in your eyes that is what really nails this home for Dean. 

He leans in before you can say anything, hands cupping your face and crashing his lips against yours, the kiss turning desperate immediately, both of you realizing this isn’t just a first kiss, but it’s a goodbye kiss, too. 

Your arms go around Dean’s waist, and when he feels you ball his shirt in your fists, he groans, his mouth opening and deepening the kiss as one hand starts to tangle in the silky strand of your hair. You feel perfect, and Dean is loathe to let you go, even though he knows he has to.

Your eyes are still shut when Dean pulls away, both of you panting, and Dean memorizes the look on your face. “Sorry.” He whispers. “Had to do that at least once.” 

“Make it more than once,” you say, surprising him, and he grins when you reach for his wrist, tugging him inside the house.

He follows you eagerly, knowing that he’s not going to forget this night, or you, for a very long time.


End file.
